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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29009412">Almost Unforgettable</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/maq_moon/pseuds/maq_moon'>maq_moon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Noir, F/M, Film Noir, Happy Ending, I made BB-8 Poe's annoying girlfriend and I'm not sorry, Mentions of Non-Consensual Drug Use, Mystery, No Pregnancy, Non-Graphic gun violence, PTSD- Shell Shock, Temporary Amnesia, cameo of Gary the dog, safe for people triggered by pregnancy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:22:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,451</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29009412</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/maq_moon/pseuds/maq_moon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The woman in the mirror has blood on her clothes, cash in her bag, and a letter telling her it's better to forget. Well, it happened. She forgot everything-- including her name. And she wasn't the only one afflicted.</p><p>It'll take the combined efforts of gumshoes, a flatfoot, a washed-up Hollywood starlet, and more to get to the bottom of this bad business. In the end, these things always come back to the beginning.  </p><p>[Or: Film noir, Reylo style]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Finn/Rose Tico, Leia Organa/Han Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>To Find Your Kiss: The Reylo Fanfiction Anthology's Valentine's Day Exchange</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeRebel/gifts">HopeRebel</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I used to play with my dolls while my Papa listened to a radio program called "When Swing Was King". I liked the music, but pretended that I didn't because Papa and I teased each other. Papa has been gone for decades and "When Swing Was King" doesn't air anymore, but HopeRebel's prompt sent me back to that sound, the horns and harmonies that I loved so much: <b><i>I kind of love the idea of Ben and Rey in a film noir type setting, but with a happier ending than most film noir. Hollywood, detectives, jazz clubs, evening gowns, and mystery.</i></b> I turned on my Andrews Sisters station and started typing.</p><p>Get ready for Noir tropes :D We have framing devices, first-person POV (which isn't my thing usually but I DID IT), amnesia (I read that it's used in a full 15% of noir o.o), and so.much.rain. </p><p>Because so much of this was inspired by music, you'll find links every so often at line breaks to songs that fit with the story. </p><p>CWs for this chapter are temporary amnesia, mentions of WW2 (as in, it's a thing that has happened and has affected our collective consciousness-- no details), and mentions of organized crime. It's *very* vague, but to avoid it, skip the short paragraph after the one that ends "he ducked his head" (it's right after the link to the Tommy Dorsey song).   </p><p>HopeRebel, it's my fondest wish that you'll enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There have been very few times in my life when I have been utterly at a loss for what to do. One of those times is now, as I’m standing here in the dark, soaked to the skin with sweat, makeup running down my face, reaching for the only thing that makes sense in the world-- <em>him</em>. Another was the moment that directly led to this one, though it wasn’t the first stop on the journey. That particular moment, as this one, was blanketed with night and perfumed with petrichor…</p>
<hr/><p>I woke up. It was a very unpleasant sensation; my ears were ringing and I saw white spots every time my heart beat. I pushed myself into a sitting position. I’d been laying on the floor, even though a sofa and bed were nearby. Nothing was familiar. I vaguely made connections—cheap furniture, a tacky floral photo hung just so over the bed, stockings thrown at a door with a horizontal knob boasting a <em>do not disturb</em> sign—and determined that I was in a hotel. I inhaled deeply, trying to get better awareness. The smell of Lucky Strikes hit me immediately. Something about that made me smile. Cheap booze and a chemical odor hit next. I certainly wasn’t at the Ritz, though I was dressed for it.</p><p>Looking down at myself, sitting on the worn green carpet of this hotel, I realized I was an anachronism. I was draped in crimson silk, a dinner dress, with fine shoes and gloves. When I looked in the mirror, I saw that my chestnut-colored hair had clearly been styled before my nap on the ground. I caught the reflection of my hat across the room. Everything about me said <em>chic souse</em>, and maybe I was. It was entirely possible for the woman in the mirror to be anything, because I sure as hell didn’t recognize me.</p><p>I threw open drawer after drawer, but I couldn’t find any identification. There was only one item of note in the room: a red handbag, printed with the letters JRS. It matched my dress perfectly. Was I JRS? I had to be. I tore open the little bag. Inside was quite a lot of money and a short message.</p><p>
  <em>My love,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I know you must be confused, but I insist that you do nothing. Use this money to start a new life. If all is well, you will have forgotten me. Don’t ask. Don’t search. This isn’t a Hollywood film. Nothing good will come of inquiries. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your husband</em>
</p><p>The first thing I did was look for a wedding band. I wasn’t wearing one, but there was an indentation on my ring finger. A ring had been there, and for some time, until recently.</p><p>I shimmied out of my silk dress and stepped into the hotel shower. The water ran cold, and the flimsy plastic curtain sent stray drops of frigid water back at me. I wanted to spend my shower thinking. I wanted to consider what my alleged husband had said, to piece together the little information I had. That plan came to a halt when I saw the blood swirling down the drain.</p><p>It wasn’t covering me, but much of my body had blood splatter on it. My calves, my forearms, my torso, and even my hair were spotted with the stuff. I examined my body; the only thing physically wrong with me was the damnable headache. So whose blood was beneath my clothes, and how had it gotten there?</p><p>I resolved to call a doctor. I couldn’t very well say, “Yes, terribly sorry, I don’t know a thing about anything, care to diagnose me?” without getting sent to a head doctor. I could, however, say that I’d bumped my head and was a bit confused. Surely a doctor would have some advice for that. I phoned the front desk and requested a physician, at which point I was informed that I was not staying in “that kind of hotel”. My so-called husband was willing to leave me a wad of greenbacks but couldn’t be bothered to get me decent lodgings for the night?</p><p>The very thought made me burn with anger, made me want to spit on this nameless, faceless man. That, I realized, was probably the point. He wanted me to move on. Then I knew-- he wanted me to forget. <em>If all is well</em>, he had written. He had a hand in my amnesia. Oh, Husband, you ought to have chosen your words much more carefully. You’ve overplayed your hand.</p><p>I was going to find him. I didn’t know what I would do when I found him, but I was determined to track him down.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hOQNDXAd0Lw"><em>Tico Tico</em>, The Andrews Sisters</a>
</p>
<hr/><p>The gumshoes were a husband-and-wife team. Strange, that, but their reputation was good and they worked pro bono. Their office lacked the usual miasma of smoke that permeated the world and was instead filled with an almost overbearing aroma of flowers. The furniture was old, but everyone’s was these days unless you’d profited from the war. The sofa, a faded pink, had a vinyl cover on it; the material made me sweaty and sticky in the slightly heated air.</p><p>They made an odd couple, I thought. He told me straightaway that he had taken her surname when they married. She beamed at him as he recounted their short courtship, their quick secular wedding just before he shipped out. Then he grew quiet and looked away.</p><p>“The initials aren’t JRS,” Mrs. Rose Tico said, holding up a magnifying glass. “Look closer; the R is ever so slightly larger. It’s a monogram. Your initials are RJS.”</p><p>“Good catch, dear,” Mr. Finn Tico praised. He had the haunted look of all the men who had gone to Europe and come back. Mrs. Tico had the hollow look of all those who stayed home but were hated for the shape of their eyes. “I noticed that the bills are sequential. Someone got them straight from the bank.”</p><p>“Or Mint,” Rose supplied. “Let’s see where they were produced.”</p><p>I was very impressed. I’d never paid much attention to the numbers and letters on dollar bills before, only the men on them. </p><p>“As for the blood, let me put in a call to a friend,” Finn suggested. “He’s a cop a few towns over. I won’t say any specifics—your privacy comes first, ma’am—but he may have some ideas.” He picked up the receiver and waited as the operator put through his connection. “Dameron! It’s Finn.”</p><p>Everything stopped. I knew that name, Dameron. I knew it in the way you know you’ve had a good or bad dream, but nothing more substantial than that. Still, it tickled the periphery of my mind, trying to prise open the curtain of fog. Nothing came.</p><p>Officer Dameron was very helpful. He checked his own county’s Missing Persons reports for people with the initials RJS. He said that for the blood to get on so much of my body, I must have been wearing other clothes when it landed on me. He also said that he himself knew someone from the war who had similar symptoms. He simply woke up with no memories. Unfortunately, Dameron didn’t know <em>why</em> the man forgot everything. He did give us a name, though: Canady. It was a place to start.</p>
<hr/><p>The local military base was busier than I’d expected. I thought that, with the war over, all the men would be returned to their families. I suppose I don’t know much about the Armed Forces. In the movies, the fighting stops and the hero flies home to his girl for their happily ever after. On VJ Day, during the ticker-tape parade, a Navy man kissed a nurse he didn’t know. It was remarkable, that moment, knowing we were one step closer to victory. We were all as giddy as that nurse and anchor clanker.</p><p>Not for the first time, I wondered how I remembered such things. How could I clearly remember a news clip but not remember a thing about my own life?</p><p>I’d used some of the money my husband left me to buy new clothes. I hugged my wool coat against me to keep out the cold. Skirts and slacks and sweaters and shoes could be bought second-hand, but I had to buy new stockings. I wanted to look nice for this meeting with Technical Sergeant Canady—professional, or at least like the wife of a moderately well-off man. Rose loaned me a ring to wear in place of my wedding band. I couldn’t be a wife searching for her husband if I wasn’t a wife, after all.</p><p>It was quite easy to get in. I simply told the men at the gate that I had an appointment with Technical Sergeant Canady, a lie, and they directed me to his office. One can get away with much if one acts with confidence. I allowed myself a small smile as I strode to his office, head high. His door was in sight when I was interrupted by a touch on my shoulder. I jumped.</p><p>“Mrs. Solo?” a man asked. I just stared at him. The Ticos and I had come up with half a dozen S surnames for me to use, half a dozen stories to tell Canady. ‘Solo’ wasn’t one of the names. But it began with the correct letter, so I didn’t know what to do. I floundered, gaping at this man, his uniform perfectly pressed, his ginger hair combed just so. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you, ma’am.”</p><p>“It’s quite alright…”</p><p>“Apologies.” He extended his hand; I took it. “Armitage Hux. I served with Ben in Italy for a time. He took out a photo of you every night. That’s how I recognized you. I’ve seen your face hundreds of times.”</p><p>“Oh,” I said. Ben Solo, who served in Italy. He was my husband. I didn’t know how I felt. I was still angry, of course, but now a great sense of relief washed over me. It would be so much easier to find him. And, it followed, to find me. “There’s no need to be so formal. Any friend of Ben’s doesn’t need to call me <em>Mrs. Solo</em>.” I must have looked like the cat who found the canary.</p><p>“Of course,” he—I looked at his insignia quickly—Corporal Hux replied. “Rey it is. I did have a reason for stopping you. I was wondering if Ben is well. He hasn’t reported in.”</p><p>I took a deep breath. “I came here hoping to find him,” I said. There. I’d make it look like <em>he</em> was the mystery. If he was the type of man to leave his wife alone, to make her forget him, he deserved a little punishment. “I can’t remember the last time I saw him.”</p><p>Cpl. Hux blanched, making his already pale skin seem sickly. “I was afraid of that,” he said. Thunder rumbled overhead. He took my arm and led me into a building full of washtubs and linens. “Men have been disappearing, all of them under Canady’s command. I want to investigate, but I’m afraid I’ll be next. I’ve thought of writing to his superiors, but what if it goes higher up?”</p><p>I held a breath. Maybe my husband—Ben—really did make me forget to protect me. I’d think on all of it later, discuss it with the Ticos, but I wasn’t sure what to do in the moment. “I’m going to talk to him. What do I say?” My hands were shaking.</p><p>“Tell him that Ben is sick,” Cpl. Hux suggested. “That should get him out of trouble. Beyond that, I don’t know. If I think of anything, I’ll be in touch.”</p><p>I nodded, not realizing that he had no way to be in touch because I had no phone or address at present, but I was full of nervous energy and I only knew that I had to press forward.</p><p>I knocked sharply three times on Canady’s door. He called for me to enter.</p><p>“What the devil do you want?” he asked.</p><p>I straightened my spine. Confidence, I reminded myself. “I’m Mrs. Ben Solo.” Something in his hard features cracked. He frowned, a sour expression that made his already unpleasant face more distasteful. He turned his back to me. Well! I sat down without the invitation he denied me. He kept his silence, staring out the window at the rain. I cleared my throat. “I’m here on my husband’s behalf,” I said, half a question. “You see, he’s had quite the fever for a while now. The doctor simply won’t let him out of bed.” Still Canady didn’t speak. I looked around the room. The walls were bare save a diploma. The bookshelves were nearly empty. A fern was wilting in the corner. Papers were in tidy stacks on his desk. I stifled a gasp.</p><p>The papers were peppered with Canady’s writing. I had seen that penmanship before: on a letter in a handbag, claiming to be from my husband.</p><p>I thanked him for his time and made a hasty retreat.</p>
<hr/><p>The Ticos had a small room where they were letting me stay free of charge. I was struck once again by their kindness when I returned from the base, unable to say a word and quite literally shaking in my boots, as Rose took my sopping wet coat and draped her very own shawl over my shoulders. Finn absently handed me a cup of coffee like it was nothing. Perhaps such gestures were nothing to them, but they were everything to me. I was a complete stranger, and they were treating me with amazing care. They didn’t even push to find out why I was so shaken. Rose simply sat beside me on their faded sofa and laid her hand on my knee.</p><p>“Solo,” I ground out eventually, my voice gravelly. “My name is Rey Solo. My husband’s name is Ben Solo, and he didn’t write the note.” Everything gushed out of me at once. I relayed what Corporal Hux had said, my discovery in Canady’s office. Finn’s brow furrowed at some point and never smoothed. I spilled coffee on my lap.</p><p>Finn shooed us out of the house. He wanted to make a few calls, he said. I understood perfectly why he needed me gone; I was quite beside myself. Rose thought it would be a treat to see a picture. We walked to the local theater and caught Judy Garland’s <em>Harvey Girls</em>, which was silly but sweet. You see, the gentleman falls in love immediately but the lady protests until the end. It’s been done dozens of times, but I do love a bit of bite to my heroines. I left feeling girlish and smiling. It had been a good distraction.</p><p>Rose and I returned to the Ticos’ arm-in-arm. If I’d known myself, I would have said we could be bosom friends. I couldn’t confide in her, however, because I had nothing to confide.</p><p>Finn looked both grave and pleased when he took our coats. He was outwardly pleasant, but the corners of his eyes were creased and his brow was still ever so slightly crinkled. I noticed for the first time that he walked with a slight limp, favoring his left leg. I looked away; the war had taken something from everyone.</p><p>“I just got off the horn with Dameron,” he said. “Ma’am—Rey—he knows your husband. He knows you.”</p><p>I suppose I ought to have felt relief, probably even joy. I didn’t feel much of anything, just a sort of emptiness where my heart should be. I must have started crying because Finn handed me his handkerchief. “He’s sure?” I asked, my voice hollow even to my own ears.</p><p>Finn nodded. “He was a witness at your wedding.” I did feel a tear then, fat and hot, slide along my nose and drip onto my lip, where it stayed, heavy. “There’s more.” I met his eyes.</p><p>How can one be stuffed full and ravenous at the same time? Feral and timid? That was me, a host of contradictions shoved into a weepy shell. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say, but every cell in me needed him to continue. “Oh?”</p><p>“He knows where Ben is.”</p><p>I’m told that I fainted as dramatically as any film star.</p>
<hr/><p>Poe Dameron’s car was a real hotrod. I’d expected him to show up in a police black-and-white, but my unknown friend apparently had a flair for the dramatic. The car was a minty-green Pontiac Streamliner with a B-Body, a beauty. I don’t know how I knew things about cars, or Poe Dameron’s car specifically, but I was too anxious to dwell on it. He pulled up to the Ticos’ and beeped three times before hopping out of the car.</p><p>I wondered how to act around him. He knew me, but I didn’t know him. What should I call him? What would he call me? I clenched my hands together until my fingers were sore. Would talking to him open a floodgate of memories? I was ready to hurl, and I hadn’t even seen him yet. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like meeting Ben. How awful this must be for him!</p><p>Poe looked like he could star in pictures. He was clean-shaven, well-kempt, and a little gray at the temples. Finn went outside to greet him while Rose kept me company. I watched them shake hands as snow flurries started to fall. Finn laughed at something. When he slipped a little on his bad leg coming back towards the house, Poe balanced him without saying a word.</p><p>I stood when they entered. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I made fists. I bit my tongue. I felt like a violin string ready to split, having been strung too tightly.</p><p>“My lady Rey,” Poe said, sweeping off his cap and dipping into a flourishing bow. Then he winked at me. I couldn’t help myself; I burst out laughing. “The first time I did that, you slapped me.”</p><p>“Bowed? Or winked?” I asked, catching my breath. The four of us sat on the faded pink furniture, coffee and cakes close at hand.</p><p>“Winked,” Poe clarified. “You thought I was flirting with you and accused me of backstabbing my best friend.”</p><p>“Were you flirting with me?” I asked pointedly.</p><p>“Heck, no! I’d never do that to Ben. ‘Course, you told him that I was making advances and he laughed, too. You took a swing at him, but he caught your hand and got down on one knee. Best proposal I’ve ever seen.”</p><p>I stared at my lap. How long ago was that? Were we one of those couples who met and married right before a man shipped out? Or were we together longer, earlier?</p><p>What did he look like?</p><p>Poe cleared his throat. “Sorry. I know you don’t remember.”</p><p>“It’s okay. I liked hearing it. It gives me a… clue, I guess, as to who I am. It sounds like I’m loyal and—violent?”</p><p>“Loyal to a fault,” Poe said seriously. “You’re not violent. You did slap me, but you weren’t fixing to hit Ben. It was a playful sort of swat. We’ve always talked it up big because it sounds funnier. I’ll be more careful from now on, try and stick to the meat and potatoes.”</p><p>“Thanks,” I said, looking away.</p><p>Finn took advantage of the awkward moment. “You said you know where Ben is.”</p><p>Poe exhaled heavily and his shoulders slumped. “That’s a good news/bad news situation.” Turning to me, he asked, “Want the good news first?” I nodded. He suddenly seemed very tired. “He’s staying with his mother. He knows about you, knows you don’t remember anything. The bad news,” Poe said, closing his eyes, “is that he also remembered nothing.”</p><p>“I’m sorry—what?”</p><p>“Well, he remembers most things. Got his memory back within a few days; I think it was his ma’s influence. Everything before ‘42 is pretty clear. Everything after? Nada. Let me tell you the whole story.</p><p>“I get a call late Thanksgiving night from a local motel owner about a drunk wrecking the place. I drive out to throw the guy in the can for a night, sober him up. Imagine my surprise when it’s Ben, my best pal, and he doesn’t recognize me. It takes some time, but I calm him down. He’s got blood under his clothes and a wad of cash in his pocket and a note from his wife saying it’s better to forget her. Well I don’t have to look at this note for half a second. I said, ‘Buddy, this ain’t Rey’s handwriting’. I’d seen that handwriting a hundred times before, over in Italy. It was Canady’s, but I didn’t know what to do with that information just yet. My first instinct was to get him to a doctor, but even with amnesia he’s stubborn and refuses to go. My second thought was to get him home. Your car wasn’t in the motel lot. Here’s where things get weird: it’s three-thirty in the AM and your car wasn’t at your house, either. That’s when I decided to head over to Leia’s—that’s his ma. I called you every few hours. Nada. Two days later I hear from Finn that an RJS has all of the symptoms Ben had, and a note to boot. Now, if Finn had used the words <em>she</em> or <em>her</em> any time in our discussion, maybe things would have gone a little faster, but I get that he wanted to respect a client’s privacy. As it is, I passed on Canady’s name and here we all are.”</p><p>He hadn’t remembered me at first, either. I exhaled a shaky breath. A husband who didn’t know me—a Ben who had no real expectations—would have been a blessing. I know it sounds callous, but the utter anxiety that I felt, the borderline fear, at his recovered knowledge made me not want to meet him. I couldn’t disappoint a stranger like I could a lover. There was a stronger feeling, though, something like a cord wrapped around my gut. I owed it to Ben to see him. I was his family, and family didn’t abandon each other. Something hot surged in my chest, propelling the words out of my mouth. “When can I see him?”</p><p>“Leia’s ready for you. She—and I—don’t think it’s wise for the two of you to be alone at your place until this business isn’t so bad.”</p><p>We set off at dusk.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNNN0iFiFic"><em>Cocktails for Two</em>, Tommy Dorsey &amp; His Orchestra</a>
</p>
<hr/><p>My mother-in-law was filthy rich. Her property was surrounded by wrought iron gates and the driveway was longer than a city block. I wasn’t unnerved by the armed guards. On the contrary, they made me feel safer. When I asked Poe about them, he ducked his head.</p><p>“I try to stay unaware,” he said. “Plausible deniability.” Dirty money, then. What had I married into?</p><p>We were greeted at the door by a butler. Poe called him <em>Chuck</em>, but he introduced himself to me as Charles Threepio and said he was typically called by his last name. Mr. Threepio led us through a house that was decked out fancier than a museum, all rich velvets and antique furniture and oil paintings. Leia was waiting for us in the parlor. She was holding court on a chaise the color of the forest, a cigarette in one hand and a martini in the other. A dog with a scrunched-up face so ugly it was cute was curled at her slippered feet. I knew her face, but not in the way she would want me to.</p><p>“You’re Leah Amidala,” I said. “I’ve seen all of your films.” She levelled me with her deep-set eyes and sighed. Her dressing gown slid down one shoulder and she took a drag of her cigarette.</p><p>“Funny how you kids only remembered the unimportant crap.” She stood, startling the dog, and walked over to me. The cigarette still hung from her lips as she spoke. “I’m Leia Organa Solo, nice to re-meet you. You always called me <em>Mom</em>, but if that’s weird now, I understand. Can I hug you?”</p><p>“Uh-huh.” I was part star-struck, part dazed as this jaded little woman clung to me. I patted her on the back when I heard her sniffle. She’d lost her daughter-in-law; it seemed the right thing to do. She pulled back abruptly but took hold of my hands, gripping them tightly.</p><p>“Ben’s already asleep, but we have a lot to talk about.” She never took her eyes from me. “Dameron, you know the drill.”</p><p>Poe smiled and kissed her on the cheek. He moved to do the same to me but changed his mind at the last second. Instead, he winked. I couldn’t stifle a snort. Leia waited until his car headed down the driveway to speak again.</p><p>“I love that boy, but he’s still a flatfoot. I suppose you’ve figured out that Han—my husband—isn’t exactly on the right side of the law.”</p><p>“The guards make an impression,” I said carefully. “Poe said he stays out of it.”</p><p>Leia pulled me gently to her chaise. The dog jumped onto my lap right away and started licking my face. “Garrett!” I chided, laughing. Leia stared at me as I frantically checked the dog’s collar for a name tag.</p><p>“Little things,” she said with a sly smile. “It’s a start. As I was saying, Han’s business isn’t what the brass would call legal. He was a rum runner during Prohibition. Never got caught, but the feds knew his name. When you’re in that business, you get mixed up with some shady characters. They’re supposed to have a code. That’s what Han always said. They’re supposed to leave your family out of it. He and I got to thinking—what if they didn’t?”</p><p>“Poe thinks it was the military.”</p><p>“Ben never made trouble,” she said, waving a hand in dismissal. “And anyway, it’ll be hard to pinpoint who until we know <em>what</em>. Han’s out checking his contacts, seeing if anybody’s heard of this affliction or a drug that could cause it.”</p><p>“But that man on the base, Corporal Hux, said it was happening to a lot of people. He’s the one who told me my name.”</p><p>Leia took a swig of her martini and stubbed out her cigarette. “Dameron didn’t go into much detail about that. Only talked about Canady. What else did he say?”</p><p>“That they were looking for Ben. That I ought to give Technical Sergeant Canady an excuse for why Ben wasn’t on base.”</p><p>Leia closed her eyes. “What did you tell Canady?”</p><p>“That he was running a high fever and the doctor said he shouldn’t get out of bed.”</p><p>“And what did Canady say?”</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>“Fuck.” She downed the last of her martini and made herself another. She handed me a gin and tonic; it was perfect. “They probably checked out your house, which is and has been empty for a week at least. Anything else?”</p><p>“The note—notes—about forgetting being good and not seeking answers were in Canady’s hand.”</p><p>“Poe did mention that. I thought it was his bias coming through.” I must have quirked a brow or looked confused because she seemed indulgent as she continued. “He hates Canady. Blames him for some bad business in the war. And there are only so many styles of penmanship. It could be similar handwriting. But you’re certain? You saw something written in Canady’s hand?” I nodded. “Fuck,” she repeated. It was bizarre hearing a silent film star speak, and especially since her words were so blunt and crass. “I love mysteries. You got me hooked on them, by the way. This… this isn’t a mystery. It’s a damn knot, and Alfred Hitchcock couldn’t untie it. Would you rather be given the tour by myself or Threepio?”</p><p>I asked to be shown only the most important rooms that night: the kitchen, the water closet, and where I would be sleeping. Leia faltered over the last. I would be in a different room than usual; she didn’t seem to know where to put me. In the end she chose something near my “regular” room. Mr. Threepio brought my solitary suitcase. They both looked at me with something akin to pity before they left. I tried not to hate them for it.</p><p>The room was overly large. Dark wood, maybe mahogany or a very deep cherry, dominated everything. There was a secretary in one corner, a vanity with a tall mirror in another. The bed was the focus, its soft blue canopy drawing the eye from almost everything else in the room. I say ‘almost’ because of the portrait. It was small, hung perpendicular to the door, and vibrant. Its gravity pulled me. The portrait was of a young woman, probably in her twenties, with dark hair and darker eyes. She wasn’t looking at me; she was looking over her left shoulder, at some mystery in the inky darkness. The cobalt and gold of her dress, its square neckline, her magnificently piled hair, and the diamonds at her throat marked her as elite. I had no business being in the same room as her. I covered her with a spare pillowcase.</p><p>I put on my second-hand pajamas, a warm set of flannels that ten years ago no woman would have worn. I braided my hair in two plaits. Then I fled into the halls, barely managing to stuff my feet into slippers and throw a dressing gown over my shoulders. I had to escape the woman in the portrait, but everywhere I turned there were reminders of her.</p><p>There, in the grand piano, I saw the curve of her brow. In the halls, in my footfalls, I heard her voice warning me. In the stars I saw her diamonds. In the kitchen I saw her eyes, living in the face of a man making a sandwich.</p><p>He cocked his head at me and narrowed those eyes. “You’re here,” he said, his voice resonating through me. I knew that voice.</p><p>“Who am I to you?” I asked, feeling small.</p><p>“Rey,” he said simply. He took a bite of his sandwich. “Though you look a little young to be a wife. Pigtails?”</p><p>“It helps my hair not tangle in the morning!” I bit, tugging on one of my plaits. “And who are you, then? Another of the servants? Or one of the gorillas from outside, coming in to have a break?”</p><p>“You’re angry with me,” he said, a half-smile tugging at his full lips.</p><p>“Not at all,” I lied. Stupid man. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me. But he just kept staring at me. It was incredibly irritating. I stared back. It wasn’t a no-blinking contest; it took me about half a minute to realize that. He was just looking at me, at my face. I examined him, with his unruly black hair and deep-set eyes. Those eyes dropped lower than my face, started to examine my body—</p><p>I wrapped my arms around myself, pulling my dressing gown tighter. “No dice, buddy. I’m a married woman,” I said.</p><p>“I know,” he replied. “I’m the one who married you.”</p><p>I proved Poe Dameron wrong in that moment: I got violent. I lunged at this giant of a man, ready to slap him senseless. He caught my hand easily and laughed.</p><p>“It’s not funny!” I snarled. “Something is very wrong and it’s not funny! You don’t get to joke about my life!”</p><p>In one smooth movement, he took the hand he had snatched and pressed it to his lips while simultaneously getting his massive body down on one knee. “This is how I proposed. Is it funny now?”</p><p>I started to push him away. I wanted to. Instead, I burst into tears and joined him on the floor. I ran my fingers all over his face, mapping every freckle and mole and line. I carded my fingers through that messy raven hair, so soft and ephemerally familiar. He was doing it, too—re-memorizing me—and perhaps it should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. It was like having a drink at the end of a long walk on a hot day. Necessary. Refreshing. <em>Good</em>. At some point our foreheads touched and we shared breath. A tear rolled onto my thumb; it wasn’t mine.</p><p>“Does this mean I can kiss you goodnight?” he—Ben—my husband asked. We both snickered.</p><p>“Not a chance, hotshot.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Reasons not to throw sticks at me:<br/>-I know nothing about the US military so?? I gave them Army ranks. I know they're WW2 appropriate. It was really confusing, so don't throw sticks.<br/>-The story, as I'm sure you've deduced, takes place circa '46-'48ish. The music is just "Papa listened to this". It may be too early or late, I really don't know, but it's GOOD MUSIC so don't throw sticks (also how fun is it that there's an actual song called "Tico Tico"?).<br/>-We're pretty stocked up on firewood as it is.<br/>-I don't think I'd enjoy having sticks thrown at me.</p><p>Find me on <a href="https://maq-moon.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a> or <a href="https://twitter.com/maq_moon">Twitter</a>!</p><p>Drop your thoughts in that box! I'd love to hear from you.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Ooookay, we have a few CWs for this chapter. It may seem like I'm over-warning, but I think it's better to do that than to have someone be surprised with something traumatic :)<br/>There is talk about opiates. No one uses them, but there's a discussion. To avoid this, stop reading at the first line break and begin again when Han says "Welp!" Later, during the breakfast scene, skip the paragraph of Leia's dialogue beginning with "Well" and ending with "I don't think this is what we're looking for".<br/>Ben has an Adult Temper Tantrum and gets a bit "Kylo" with Rey in one paragraph. To avoid this, stop reading at "When Han left us" and begin again at the italicized paragraph.<br/>Non-graphic gun violence happens here. Stop at "That was when the shooting started" and begin again at the line break.<br/>There's a *very* brief mention of the suicide of an unnamed person. Simply skip Han's answer when Rey asks "Sorry, what?" during the breakfast scene. This same part also alludes to organized crime.<br/>Mention of a plane being shot down in WW1 during the Christmas interlude. Stop at "Han looked out the window"; begin again at the next paragraph.<br/>We've got the discussion of family planning at the tail end of the sex scene. Stop reading *immediately* at the jizz and start again at "We dressed for bed".<br/>Ben has PTSD-related nightmares throughout. They're not described, but they're mentioned a fair bit.</p><p>Thank you for your time, thank you for reading, thank you for being fabulous. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vOUYry_5Nw"><em>In the Mood</em></a>, Glenn Miller</p>
<hr/><p>I wanted to remember, but I wanted to do it on my own time. I made it clear that I didn’t want to hear stories about myself. Poe’s accidental exaggeration during his recounting of Ben’s proposal had shown me that I couldn’t rely on others, even if they meant well. I would piece things together organically, by osmosis. I <em>would</em> remember myself, my life, and my life with Ben.</p><p>There were reminders of us everywhere in the house: a family photo on the piano, our wedding pictures in a gilded frame next to Leia and Han’s above the fire, shoes and clothes that fit only me next to shoes and clothes that fit only Ben in a bedroom closet.</p><p>He was trying to give me space. We skirted around each other at first, an easy thing to do in such a large house. But I would catch a glimpse of him leaving a room, or hear his voice, or smell his cigarettes—Lucky Strikes—and I knew he had to be seeing glimpses of me, too. We sat across from one another at supper. I stared at my food more often than not, but I could feel him staring at me.</p><p>From time to time, I would get a flash of memory. Our wedding: the sleeves of my dress itched and I sneezed into my flowers when I was supposed to say <em>I do</em>. A train platform: waving and waving and waving, refusing to cry until the train was long out of sight. Hunger, coldness, <em>Welcome to Hooverville, girl</em>. A dance hall: the Glenn Miller Band playing while he took my hand and made me feel light. Darkness: sighs and skin and <em>oh God, Rey, you’re beautiful</em> and a warmth I wish I could feel again.</p><p>Leia had very little patience with my hesitancy. She locked me and Ben in the library one afternoon, when I’d been with them about a week.</p><p>“Sorry,” Ben said, flushing red at the neck. “She’s…”</p><p>“I know.” I sighed and sat on a small chintz sofa meant for two. Sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing us in prewinter afternoon light. “She wants me to remember. I want to remember. You’re all just trying to help.”</p><p>“I’m doing a piss-poor job of it.” His eyes widened and his blush crept higher. “Pardon my language.”</p><p>I shook my head. “I guarantee you’ve said worse in front of me.” I regarded him, top to bottom. I already knew that I liked his face, with its slightly crooked nose and full lips that wanted to be kissed. I hadn’t paid much attention to the sheer size of him—the broadness of his shoulders, the length of his arms and legs. He cut quite the figure with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and tucked into his finely tailored slacks. He always looked so very deliberately put together. I had yet to see him without shoes, except in those rare and precious memories of intimacy. I pursed my lips and patted the sofa next to me. When he sat, he was very careful not to touch me.</p><p>“How did you remember?” I asked. “Did you have real memories at first or just flashes?”</p><p>He averted his eyes. “Both,” he said. I nudged him gently with my elbow. “The longer, more complete memories are from here, home. Then I remembered you, our life. I still don’t remember the war at all.”</p><p>“It stands to reason that if we spend more time together, I’ll remember more.”</p><p>“I’d like that.” He couldn’t suppress a toothy grin.</p><p>“We—we used to go dancing. I think. Or we did at least once. Have you got a record player?”</p><p> “In the parlor.” He took my hand and stood, and just like that we were on our way back to each other.</p>
<hr/><p>When Han returned, it was with bad news. We four were gathered around the supper table. Leia brought in an old gramophone and turned it on; the noise was obscene and scratchy, but no one outside would be able to hear the conversation.</p><p>“People are always taking advantage of wartime chaos,” Han said. “I talked to—well, that’s not important. Opiates. Lots of opiates are coming in. Don’t know if that’s the cause of what’s going on with you kids; I don’t deal with that stuff and don’t know anything about it. Guys I asked say it doesn’t work like that, but who knows? Could be protecting their own interests.”</p><p>“So it’s a dead end,” Leia said.</p><p>“Not if we talk to somebody on the right side of the law who actually knows about opiates,” Han replied. “Somebody with no reason to lie. A doctor, maybe. It’ll have to be you or me, Leia. We can’t send the kids to a doctor with their… condition.”</p><p>Leia snorted. “Obviously.” Her dog jumped up into her lap. “I’ll do it. An old silent picture star would know about opium dens. It wouldn’t be strange for me to ask.” We all nodded. Leia sighed dramatically. “You were supposed to say that I’m not old. Useless, the lot of you…” She scooped up the dog and sashayed out of the kitchen, turning off the screeching gramophone as she went.</p><p>“Welp,” Han said, leaning back in his chair, “how are you kids?”</p><p>It was oddly refreshing to be treated as though I were normal, as though something in my head wasn’t broken. Han offered small talk, and I appreciated it. Yes, talking about the rain and cold was boring, but it took my mind off of, well, my mind. Ben didn’t engage as much as I did, though I supposed there was only so much to be said about the weather.</p><p>When Han left us, Ben slammed his hand on the tabletop, making me jump. “Same old Dad,” he spat, eyes narrowed. “Never asking anything important, never actually caring. Just whizzing around, putting all of us in danger, like he always did—”</p><p>I laid my hand on his. “Ben. Calm down. He was trying to be nice and not pressure me into remembering.”</p><p>Ben laughed humorlessly and yanked his hand away. “How would you know? You didn’t grow up with him. Your parents were drunks who—”</p><p>
  <em>Welcome to Hooverville, girl. No one leaves unless they can buy their way out, and your Da drank away all the money and stuck me with you. Now give Mummy a kiss on the cheek, because this is the last you’ll see of me, too. I can’t afford a kid. Can’t even afford myself. Land of Opportunity, my arse…      </em>
</p><p>I woke in the parlor. Leia was wafting smelling salts under my nose. I had one hell of a headache, but that was okay. I had a memory, a real, true, vibrant memory. Leia smiled and sighed. I saw Han in the corner; his shoulders un-tensed the tiniest bit.</p><p>“How do you feel?” Leia asked, soft and matronly.</p><p>“I remembered something,” I said. “I remembered my mother.”</p><p>Leia held me to her bosom. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry.” Han came over and ruffled my hair.</p><p>I didn’t know what the big deal was. The memory was—what, 16, 17 years old? I had clearly gotten a new family in that time. Unless I wasn’t remembering everything about her, or I hadn’t fully got through my abandonment issues. “It’s really fine,” I said, smashed against Leia’s breast. “She left me at a Hooverville. But I have you now.”</p><p>“Oh, honey, if you had said that a few weeks ago…” She sniffled. Han handed her a handkerchief. “What brought it on? Do you know?”</p><p>I frowned. “Yes. Where is my husband?”</p>
<hr/><p>I smelled the booze before I opened the door. Whiskey, the expensive stuff.</p><p>I banged on the door once in warning before entering our bedroom. The whiskey bottle was overturned on the floor, mostly full and dripping. My husband wasn’t getting drunk, he’d just tossed good alcohol onto an Oriental rug. I didn’t know if that was better.</p><p>His shoes, jacket, and suspenders were next to our bed. He was lying face-down on the golden coverlet, clutching a photo frame. I couldn’t see the photo.</p><p>“Ben,” I said, “look at me.” He turned to his back and propped himself up on his elbows. He looked frightful, but I couldn’t let sympathy sway me. “You are never to speak to me that way again. Do you understand? Never. It doesn’t matter to me that we’re married. I won’t be treated like garbage. I’ll leave.”</p><p>“Of course,” he said, and I believe his eyes were full of tears. “Of course, I swear it. I don’t know what came over me. I was so angry at my father, and-- We always said that we’d never argue with each other about family stuff, just be supportive, so when you defended him I got angry at you for breaking our deal and I started spewing hateful words. I didn’t even notice you’d fallen. My back was to you and I was shouting so I didn’t even know you’d fallen.” Tears slid down his face.</p><p>“I don’t remember that deal,” I said. “I barely remember a goddamn thing, and you flipped your wig like a toddler.”</p><p>He nodded. “I’ll do better. I’ll be better. It’s just—hard to have you so close and not actually have you. That’s not an excuse and I’m not looking for pity. But it kills me to love you and not have you know me.”</p><p>I could have told him about my remembrances of our lovemaking. I could have told him the few things I recalled about our wedding day. It would have been a good time. Instead, I simply sat beside him on our bed and held his hand. We fell asleep like that, husband and wife, next to one another, as we were supposed to.</p><p>He slept fitfully, tossing and turning and waking me up more than once. He would babble about some “operation” or another, wartime things I didn’t understand. He called someone a killer. I tried not to think on that and told myself he was talking about the enemy. I shushed him and smoothed his hair. I whispered that he was home now (whatever that was worth). He repeated the word <em>remember</em> an innumerable number of times. Even in sleep, he was fighting the haze of forgetfulness.</p><p>It shamed me. I wasn’t trying hard enough, was I? I got brief glimpses of the past and one real memory brought on by a grown man’s temper tantrum, but what was I doing? I was listing about my in-laws’ house, dancing and reading and hoping.</p><p>In fairy stories, a kiss broke evil spells. True Love’s Kiss. I knew I had danced with Ben, had made love to him, had married him, and had waved goodbye to him as a train took him to war. Surely that meant I was in love with him—and he loved me, present tense. I licked my lips nervously. Maybe a kiss would help me remember.</p><p>It didn’t. It wasn’t even a good kiss, just a brush of my lips against his, still mumbling. I felt a thrill of familiarity, but nothing more. It wasn’t awkward when he opened his eyes and saw me leaning over him. I knew this had happened a hundred times before. He touched my cheek with shaking fingers. I smiled at him; he looked at me like I was God. I nestled against his chest. Hesitantly, he put his arms around me. Our hearts beat like jackhammers out of synch. I drifted into a lazy sleep, Ben’s mumbling rousing me every so often.</p><p>We slept in the same bed from then on, touching innocently. Once, he accidentally brushed against my breast and I thought he would die of shame. I laughed it off, and eventually he laughed too. He liked to play with my hair. He would take it out of its plaits and run his fingers through it, twisting it into little curls, and braid it again for me just before I nodded off. I liked to burrow into the crook of his neck, where I could smell the lingering aroma of his aftershave and play with the collar of his pajama shirt. The gestures between us were intimate, the touches light. I remembered this feeling—contentment—and a few other small things. Ben relived terrors every night.</p><p>Each morning Leia, followed by Garrett the dog, would look at me from a distance, one brow raised in a question. Each morning I would blush furiously and shake my head. Leia would shrug and light her first cigarette of the day. I thought it strange that a mother should be so interested in her child’s marital affairs, but it turned out she was joshing me. She would start raising that single eyebrow at arbitrary times, lunch or supper, or while playing the piano or billiards, and I would blush every time. The game was up when Han took pity on me. “She’s messing with you, kid.” The following morning, when Leia arched that eyebrow, I winked at her. She dropped her unlit cigarette and burst out laughing.</p><p>I was suddenly aware of her in a new way, or, rather, an old way. The memories came gently, like sinking into a warm bath. Leia at my wedding, in fine gray silk. Leia and Han in the parlor, waiting to meet me for the first time, their voices loud and echoing through the halls. Leia showing me her collection of fine dresses, things she kept from her Hollywood days and things that had been her mother’s. Leia and I shopping. Leia letting the dog drink from her martini glass. Leia taking me to lunch every Saturday that Ben was abroad.</p><p>I put one hand on my racing heart and used the other to steady myself against the wall. Leia rushed to me, clasping my upper arms.</p><p>“I know you,” I said simply. I leaned forward and rubbed our noses together. Leia called those <em>Eskimo kisses</em>, and she had started giving them to me the first time Ben brought me home. Her dark eyes welled with tears and she leaned against my shoulder. I pulled her into a proper hug because she was as good as my own mother and I loved her. “Mom,” I whispered, and she sobbed all the harder.</p><p>Ben must have heard us, or perhaps he woke on his own. In knowing Leia, I knew my husband tangentially. I could feel my heartstrings tug and twist when I looked at him. His face was a mess of contradictions, but his mother was crying and I was on cloud nine, so he was right to be confused. I invited him to join our embrace. He hesitated; Leia yanked him to us. It was a good morning.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2S1I_ien6A"><em>Sing Sing Sing</em>, Benny Goodman</a>
</p>
<hr/><p>I went out with Rose on the first Saturday of February. I wanted to thank her properly for the kindness she and Finn had shown me. While the Solos has paid the Ticos for their detective work, I felt that a little something extra was necessary.</p><p>We went to lunch at a new little place downtown. I had to take one of Han’s cars (a Morris 8/40 Series E Roadster, dark blue and sparkling like brand new), as mine was still missing. Odd, that. Rose was decked out and her leg was bobbing up and down, shaking the table just a bit. She may have been the gumshoe, but any schnook could tell something was up.</p><p>“What’s buzzing?” I asked, cracking half a smile.</p><p>“Huh? Oh, nothing much,” she replied, fiddling with a bracelet. “We’ve got a couple run-of-the-mill cases going on. Nothing as exciting as you.”</p><p>I shook my head once. “I meant—are you okay? You look like you walked straight out of a fashion plate and then drank an entire pot of coffee.”</p><p>“Oh.” She looked down at her jostling leg, at her hands clutching her bag a little too tightly. “I just… didn’t want to embarrass you. Since you’re an heiress and all, I figured you’d be dressed to the nines, but you look like… <em>you</em>. Which isn’t bad! I only mean that I went and got new clothes and you look just the same and now I feel a little foolish—”</p><p>“Rose Tico, tell me you didn’t!” She looked beautiful, very smart in her woolen yellow skirt and jacket. Her shoulders were fashionably padded and she even had a ruffle at the jacket’s hem. It made me feel lackluster in my sweater and slacks. “You look lovely, but you didn’t need to buy something new. I look like a real drip next to you.”</p><p>“But you’re—you’re <em>glitterati</em>, Rey. I couldn’t wear any old thing.”</p><p>“Yes, you could, and you must promise that next time, you will.”</p><p>She looked a bit faint. “Next time?”</p><p>“Well, if you’d like to. I want to be friends.”</p><p>Rose smiled then, wide and genuine. “I’d like that.” She took one of my hands in both of hers.</p><p>Then the shooting started.</p><p>I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a gunshot up close, but it’s not just a <em>bang</em>. It’s a bang followed by a high whine that bounces between your ears and makes your teeth ache. Five, ten, fifteen shots, breaking glass, things falling, people screaming (maybe you’re one of them), and it’s a real cacophony in your mind.</p><p>Rose pulled me under the table at the sound of the first shot. When it became clear that the masked men were aiming for people, she turned the table onto its side and maneuvered it to shield us. It was only wood, maybe an inch thick, but it was something. Then Rose, this little woman full of kindness and joy, pulled a pistol from her handbag. She cocked it, and when she fired it wasn’t at all like in pictures. The actors closed one eye and pulled their ‘trigger finger’ hard. Rose kept both eyes open and barely twitched her finger before cocking the gun again.</p><p>“Did you get him?” I asked, hands over my ears. Rose’s finger twitched again.</p><p>It all had to be over in a matter of minutes, but it felt like hours. Rose’s gun was back in her bag, police were on the scene with their own weapons drawn, and two men were in handcuffs. I stayed on the floor, eyes wide, as their masks were pulled off.</p><p>“There’s the one I got,” Rose said, indicating a third man who was being bandaged. “I don’t shoot to kill. I got him in the shoulder; he couldn’t shoot anymore.”</p><p>“What if you’d missed?” I asked. “Hit him in the chest?”</p><p>“I haven’t yet.” She pulled me to my feet and dusted me off. “I’m going to take you to the hospital. I want to make sure your hearing is okay. I’ll call Ben when we get there.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fHjZQb-kGek"><em>A Kiss to Build a Dream On</em>, Louis Armstrong</a>
</p>
<hr/><p>There were others from the restaurant at the hospital, most of them in worse condition than me. I learned later that three women and one man had died from gunshot wounds. Rose tried to go with me when the nurse called my name, but she wasn’t allowed. When I tried to claim that she was my sister, the nurse narrowed her eyes and shook her head. I waved as I was led away.</p><p>The doctors weren’t concerned for my hearing, but they decided to keep me overnight “for observation”, whatever that meant. I was just settling into my hospital bed for the night when Ben rushed into my room. There were shouts and <em>clangs</em> behind him; I tried to look stern, but I laughed instead. What a spectacle this giant of a man must have made sprinting through the sterile corridors!</p><p>He didn’t smile; I couldn’t puzzle out his emotions. He said my name. In two steps he was at my side, and in less than a heartbeat he was kissing me.</p><p>How different it was from the dry, passionless kiss I had given him in the middle of the night. He kissed me like a lover, cradling my face in his hands, moving his lips ardently. Surprise parted my own lips, and his tongue darted into my mouth. It occurred to me then that I ought to kiss him back, but he leapt away from me. I reached for him.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said, flushed. “I was afraid and got caught up and—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken liberties. I know you don’t love me.”</p><p>“Yet,” I added swiftly. “I’m fond of you now without knowing you completely. Imagine how it’ll be when I remember.”</p><p>“I don’t have to imagine,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and staring at the floor. “They, uh, they rounded up the gunmen. Dad thought you might need some extra protection tonight and wanted to send one of his gorillas. I told him, ‘She’s my wife and I can shoot straight’. But if, uh, if you’d prefer, I’ll get Dad on the horn and have him send over a guard.”</p><p>“No!” I said. I reached for him again; this time he took my hand. He let me tug him to my uncomfortable hospital bed and sat beside me. “Why does Han think I need protecting?”</p><p>Ben swallowed. His thumb ran across my knuckles absently. “The fellows who did it are in the can for now, but they’re not talking. Dad thinks they might be career boys. Career means it was a targeted crime. Was the target the place or a person? There are people dead, but the owner says nothing’s gone from the till. Could be they wanted to mess up the place and the job got botched.” He shrugged. “But it could be related to whatever opium Dad thinks made me forget the war and you forget everything.”</p><p>“That doesn’t make sense. I still don’t remember. Why shoot at me?”</p><p>Ben sighed. “In case you do remember? Because you didn’t follow their instructions? Because I’ve remembered almost everything? Hell if I know.” He was slouched, slumped, so very unlike the poised and collected man I was coming to know.</p><p>“Tell me something,” I said, “about me. Or you, or us. It’s the one thing we haven’t tried. We’ve been dancing around it. I’ve—I guess I’ve changed my mind about stories. Only please don’t exaggerate. I want to know what’s real.” His eyes were soulful, reminiscent of the ones in the painting I’d covered. He opened and shut his mouth. I squeezed his hand.</p><p>“Once upon a time,” he began, giving me a fit of giggles. He raised one eyebrow, making me laugh more, and when an inelegant snort escaped me, Ben chuckled as well. I noticed the long dimple on just one side of his face. It was precious to me because it was novel, and it was novel because I hadn’t been making him smile. I resolved to do better. “Once upon a time,” he repeated, “a boy picked my pocket. The lad didn’t take money, though I reckon he didn’t realize it at first. He wound up with a map. No great loss, you’re thinking. Only I was visiting my uncle and had never been to the city before. That map had my schedule and all sorts of important information written on it, my uncle’s address included. Naturally I had to chase the thief down. I caught him quickly enough, but imagine my surprise when the boy wasn’t a boy at all. It was a girl playing at being a boy. I unhanded her but still demanded my map back. She said—”</p><p>“You’ll have to buy me supper first.” The mist in my head pulled back, just an inch. “And you took me to a real café, not a drive-up. I had pork chops.” I swallowed thickly. “And you took me dancing after.”</p><p>“My uncle was angry that I arrived so late,” Ben said, smiling. “I told him it couldn’t be helped because the girl I was going to marry had stolen my map.”</p><p>I leaned into a sitting position and looped my arms around his neck. We were both sniffling and my eyes were misty. I breathed in the lingering smell of cigarettes and aftershave. It was comforting, that smell. I smiled through my tears and a giggle burst through my lips. I kissed the column of his throat.</p><p>Neither of us slept that night. Ben told me stories of myself. Some jogged memories and some didn’t. By the time dawn broke, I remembered the majority of my life with him. Adding that to my remembrances of Leia, I had a pretty clear picture of things from 1938 onwards. I learned my birthday (February 9, 1918) and that my family had come to America just before the crash of ’29, which explained the echo of being dropped at a Hooverville. I learned my wedding anniversary (June 25, 1939). It warmed me to know that we hadn’t rushed to marry when the war broke out, that we’d been in love and had a life before the world fell apart.</p><p>We left the hospital hand-in-hand before the sun was fully risen. When we got back to the Solo house, Mr. Threepio took our coats and we hurried to our bedroom. We fell onto the bed, not bothering to get under the covers, and fell asleep in each other’s arms. When I woke, it was noon. Ben mumbled in his sleep, this time about stars, and tossed fitfully. I smoothed his hair and pressed a lingering kiss to his temple.                 </p><p>Leia was out. Han fried ham and eggs and explained that she was seeing a doctor, asking about opiates. I stilled, the sudden jerking causing juice to slosh onto my face and hands. Garrett jumped into my lap and licked my chin. Han tossed me a wet washcloth; the dog wasn’t as interested in giving me kisses when I was clean.</p><p>Han didn’t pry, and I appreciated that about him, but he seemed to sense when I needed to talk. “What’s wrong, kid?” he asked, slinging breakfast onto a plate and sliding it to me. He didn’t hand me cutlery until I answered.</p><p>“If I’m getting attacked for just possibly remembering who knows what, what will happen to Mom for taking an active role in trying to figure this out?”</p><p>Han shot off a half-smile when I called Leia <em>mom</em>. “Well,” he said, “that’s anybody’s guess. Seems to me we don’t know you were the target yesterday. Also seems to me that Leia’s an adult and can make her own choices.”</p><p>“But what if I don’t want her to make that choice? What if I’d rather have Swiss cheese in my mind than have her in danger?” I slapped the table, making my eggs jump.</p><p>“Not your call,” Han said. He took the chair across from me and leaned back. “Besides, Ben’s missing a few years, too. She’s not gonna take that sitting down.” He snatched a piece of ham from my plate; I glowered. “Hollywood types do this crap all the time. It ain’t suspicious for <em>Leah Amidala</em> to want to numb the pain of, I don’t know, irrelevance or whatever excuse she came up with.”</p><p>I sighed. “What about the shooters? Is there any more information on them? Who they work for? Ben said you think they’re…”</p><p>He raked a hand through his gray hair and shook his head. “They’re dead.”</p><p>“Sorry, what?”</p><p>“Died in lockup. Looks like two teamed up on the third. Second got a shiv in the—never mind where, it was fast and fatal. The third did himself.”</p><p>“Bleeding Christ,” I said. My fork fell from my hand.</p><p>“Not a surprise,” Han said, mouth full of ham. “Professionals or, if Dameron’s right, military, it was to be expected. Their bosses get ‘em. Cops get ‘em. They do themselves in so that the cops or their bosses don’t get ‘em.”</p><p>I poked at my eggs. Those men had killed four people. My family’s problems aside, the deaths of those criminals meant that those they’d killed would have no justice. Their families would be empty forever.</p><p>Leia swept in before melancholy completely overtook me. She was frazzled, a real mess. Her caked-on makeup was smeared and running and her clothes—much fancier than she usually wore—were unkempt. Her coiffure was windswept, and I realized that it was all for a camera that wasn’t there. Drenched in French perfume, Leia was playing the part of Leah Amidala, star of such silent films as <em>The Monster’s Wife, The Shoemaker’s Dream</em>, and <em>Her New White Trousers</em>. I have to say, she really did look like the desperate has-been she wanted to portray. It was her most ambitious role ever, as Leia has only ever been comfortable in her skin. She slumped gracefully into the chair beside me, her manner completely at odds with her aspect.</p><p>“Well,” she said, drawing the word out, “I have a few prescriptions for nerve pills. Three, he gave me. Three!” She lit a cigarette. “I told him I had a ‘friend’ in the business who is jazzed about opium. The fetid little man just wanted celebrity gossip! I had to do a quid pro quo with this asshole, and of course every word I said was a lie. As if I’d ever sleep with Fred Astaire.” She snorted and took a long drag. She blew the smoke out in perfect rings. “It turns out that opium <em>can</em> make you forget. That’s what I told him I wanted, you see. I told him I wanted to forget everything.” She affected a dramatic voice and tears sprung to her eyes. “All the years of being passed over! How the studios said my voice wasn’t right for talkies. The terrible actors and directors and executives, but mostly those horrible women.” She returned to normal and met my eye. “Men love a catfight. The mind boggles. I digress. Opium can make you forget, but not like you kids have. It’s not something that you can inject and say, <em>Right, let’s eliminate all memories from Pearl Harbor to today</em>. It screws with how your mind works over time. And there are different kinds. I don’t think this is what we’re looking for.”</p><p>“But Ben originally forgot everything,” I said. “Not only the war. That’s just the last bit to come back.”</p><p>Han folded his arms over his chest. “Before we do any conjecturing, we ought to let the boy in on it. He deserves to be kept up to speed.”</p><p>Part of me wanted to let him sleep, but I knew Han was right. I also had to find an opportune moment to tell my in-laws that Ben had helped me remember a whole heck of a lot and that I’d like to hear stories now. Well, I figured, better now than later.</p><p>“I remember things,” I blurted out just as Han was leaving the kitchen. “Not everything, but I asked Ben to tell me stories and he talked all night and it jogged some memories. I don’t remember my parents, but I remember most things from after I met Ben.”</p><p>I expected the emotional outburst from Leia; she cried and clasped my hand so hard that I swear I lost circulation. I didn’t expect Han’s reaction. He nearly leapt across the kitchen and pulled me from my chair (rescuing my fingers) and into a hug. I laughed a bit, high-pitched, part joy and part raw nerves. My eyes fluttered closed and I reveled in Han’s happiness. When I opened my eyes, I saw Ben leaning on the frame of the kitchen door, smiling his soft half-smile.</p><p>After Ben was filled in on Leia’s morning and the news of the gunmen, he made a statement that caused both of his parents to frown: “We should bring in Poe.”</p><p>The protestations began immediately. Leia threw her hands in the air. Han crossed his arms over his chest and grumbled about Poe being a flatfoot. All at once, everyone was looking at me expectantly. I looked at all three of them in turn and gulped.</p><p>“I think,” I said slowly, pushing my cold eggs around on my plate, “it’s a good idea. If this avenue is exhausted, you know. And it sounds like it might be.”</p><p>It was therefore decided that we would invite Poe to the house after the new year.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <a href="https://youtu.be/CreWsnhQwzY?t=47"><em>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas</em>, Judy Garland</a>
</p><p>
  <a href="https://youtu.be/ue1mpRiyXY4?t=31"><em>We’re Here Because We’re Here</em>, Edward Dwyer</a>
</p>
<hr/><p>Christmas was a subdued affair. Any normal year, Leia would have hosted a large party with celebrity friends and games and beautiful decorations. The house was still beautiful, but there was no party. Leia made the excuse that she had taken ill. She had started spreading the rumor right after Thanksgiving, when Poe found Ben alone in a hotel room with a note that wasn’t from me. We played games, but not on a large scale. We weren’t playing Charades with teams of ten or twelve or fifteen; we were playing Euchre.</p><p>Each of us had a sock over the fireplace, as did Mr. Threepio (whom I was now thinking of as simply <em>Threepio</em>, which was what the rest of the family called him). They were filled with candies and trinkets, an orange in each one, nothing of real consequence. It was a silly day full of jokes and frivolity. None of us, by agreement, had gotten anyone else a proper gift. We turned on the radio and listened to Bing Crosby and Judy Garland. We sang songs of our own and made popcorn garlands. It was a happy day, made better by the snowfall that started as dusk fell. Fat, heavy flakes stuck to both grass and pavement, and the desire to build a snowman in the morning overwhelmed me.</p><p>Han looked out the window with me, our breath fogging the glass. He was singing quietly, <em>Auld Lang Sine</em>, I thought. I caught his near-silent words just before he turned away. “We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here…” They were words he’d sung in the Great War, words that came to him this time of year because of the tune—words that haunted him because of the friends he’d lost. I wracked my brain for the name of the man Han spoke of most frequently, the pilot he would always call his best friend. Only the nickname came to me: Chewie, shot down by friendly fire.</p><p>I clasped Han’s arm before he was out of reach. “Hey,” I whispered. “We’re here.”</p><p>He smiled softly and patted my cheek. “Thanks, kid.”</p><p>Han’s melancholy persisted, so Leia and I tried to make time for him. We’d play Gin or drink gin or he would tell me stories, sometimes about myself and sometimes about his adventures as a rum runner.</p><p>As for Ben, it was increasingly difficult to sleep beside him. His nighttime mumblings became louder, and he tossed and turned so much as to keep me awake. I knew it was unkind of me to put myself before him when he needed me to soothe his fears. His talk of killers and remembering and stars was just so frustrating. I found myself napping in the afternoons, and Ben always apologized. He was so sincere and the love on his face was so plain that I couldn’t find it in myself to reprimand him. I fibbed and said that I slept fitfully; I knew he didn’t believe me.</p><p>On New Year’s Eve, things shifted.</p><p>We turned on the television set in the informal parlor and gathered around to watch the big aluminum ball drop in New York City. I sat on the floor, feet tucked beneath me. Ben brought me a colorful afghan that his grandmother had made and draped it on my lap. He sat beside me and put an arm around my shoulders. I happily snuggled against him. Han and Leia were on the plush sofa behind us. Han fell asleep well before midnight; Leia swatted him awake and took him to bed with a pointed look at Ben.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6mz5V9WECc"><em>When I Fall in Love</em>, Nat King Cole</a>
</p>
<hr/><p>I furrowed my brows and pulled away just enough to gaze at him. He was flushing beneath his collar again; it was boyish and charming. He stuffed a hand into his pocket and rifled around. I scooted back to give him room, but he took hold of my wrist.</p><p>“We said we weren’t giving each other Christmas presents,” he began. I nodded. “This is something you need. I hope. If you’ll have it.” His blush climbed higher.</p><p>“Ben,” I said, smiling and shaking my head a little. “I’m sure it’s fine. I’m sure it’s wonderful.”</p><p>He held a little velvet box in his shaking hand. A <em>ring</em> box. I reached for it, fingers trembling, and nearly dropped it. Ever so slowly I opened it. My breath caught. The golden band was delicate. It held a teardrop-shaped emerald flanked by tiny diamonds. It was the most beautiful thing I’d</p><p>ever seen, prettier even than the one that had been stolen. I thrust my left hand at Ben, happy tears spilling from my eyes. The ring box tumbled between us. He caught it deftly. When he hesitated to put it on me, I looked up at him and touched his face lightly. He met my eyes. I nodded and felt the ring slide into place. My smile must’ve been miles wide because I could feel it. His smile was the sweetest expression, pure joy, and while I didn’t want to erase that smile I really wanted to kiss my husband. So I did.</p><p>I kissed him slowly, dragging out the warmth I felt in my heart and the heat pooling below. I climbed into his lap and ran my hands through his hair. It was languid, all lips, until one of his hands grazed the waistband of my slacks. He pulled back as if burned. I was already burning, though, and I could feel that he was too. He couldn’t hide the tent in his trousers. I bit my lip and considered.</p><p>“Will you take me to bed, Ben?”</p><p>He nodded and stood, helped me up. “It is awfully late.” I exhaled a laugh.</p><p>“I meant <em>bed</em> bed,” I clarified. “I want to make love.”</p><p>He took my hand and practically ran to our bedroom.</p><p>Once there, however, he slowed considerably. He took a shaky breath while he looked me up and down. I moved first, unbuttoning his shirt with trembling fingers, setting aside his cufflinks and pocket watch. He kept his hands on me, but always somewhere safe—my face or shoulders or arms. I pulled my sweater over my head and tossed it to the floor. He stared at my breasts, still covered by my brassiere. Feeling bold, I unhooked the thing and let it fall.</p><p>“Now you,” I whispered.</p><p>His eyes didn’t leave my bare skin as he peeled off his undershirt and kicked off his shoes. I stepped closer, close enough that our heavy breathing meant our naked chests almost touched, and undid his belt. He put his hands in my hair as I unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. We moved as one to our bed and sat on the golden coverlet. I unbuttoned my own slacks; he toed off his socks. We were at an impasse, both equally undressed and equally nervous to be the next to shed an item of clothing. I laid back and pulled him atop me. We could start slowly.</p><p>Oh, but his kisses were <em>fire</em>! They sent flames coursing through by body, making me sweat, adding heat to the furnace already burning in my abdomen. His tongue drew moans from me, and mine drew bestial sounds from him. One of his legs slotted between mine and I couldn’t help it—I rutted—there’s no better word for the primal, frantic motion. My fingernails were digging deep into his back, I was biting his lower lip, and I heard myself snarl at him to take his pants off.</p><p>He did, and mine as well for good measure. His fingers were hooked into the sides of my panties and I think I told him to <em>fucking do it already</em>. Bleeding Christ, once he did, he put his mouth on me. He hummed and flicked his tongue at the spot I would touch myself, drank from me and laved that most sensitive place, and my vision whited out. I was made of jelly. I was sated and needed more. When he moved to kiss me, I said, “Your drawers.” He happily obliged.</p><p>I could have looked at him for ages. His body was beautiful, and he was hard for me. Everything about him was mine, from the sweat on his brow to the callouses on his fingers to the blood in his cock. And I knew, right then, that everything about me was his.</p><p>Muscle memory is a wonderful thing. My body knew just what he liked, just what I liked. When he pushed into me, thick and hot and long, I knew that he could go deeper if I hitched my leg up. I knew he would like it if I bit him on the shoulder. He thrust, hard and jarring, making my breasts bounce, and kissed me like he was dying. He balanced his weight on one arm and squeezed my nipple with his free fingers in time with his thrusts. A strangled gasp escaped me; the next time, he twisted. I felt my muscles contracting, my body shaking. Everything was bliss in his arms and around his cock and under his body. I kissed him hard and felt him shudder.</p><p>He pulled out of me at the last second, spilling himself on my stomach and breasts. That shocked me—the sudden sticky warmth, rapidly cooling. Ben must have registered my confusion.</p><p>“Because we decided not to have children yet,” he explained, blushing. “You used to like it. Do you not want me to anymore?”</p><p>“No!” I said. “I was just surprised. I do like it. It just gets cold fast.”</p><p>Ben, my precious husband, drew me a hot bath.</p><p>We dressed for bed, but spent the time between waking and sleeping exploring each other’s bodies. We talked as we did so, about silly things and lost memories. I made him come with a few strokes of my hand. He was very curious about his nighttime ramblings. I tried to deflect, but he was adamant. He didn’t agree with my protestations that it might bring back bad remembrances of the war.   </p><p>“It’s a few things,” I said. “Occasionally you mention operations. I imagine you saw a fair few. Sometimes you say ‘remember’ over and over. Mostly you talk about stars, and… and killers.”</p><p>“Stars and killers?” he asked. “That—that sounds familiar, actually. You may be right; it may be a war thing.”</p><p>“But you’re not a killer,” I said vehemently, squeezing his hand under the blankets. “You were fighting the Nazis.”</p><p>“Yeah…” he trailed off. “I really think we need to talk to Poe.”</p>
<hr/><p>On New Year’s Day, I got a call from Rose. I was jazzed about it and couldn’t wait to tell her the sorts of things I now knew. Then Threepio, who had answered the phone, suggested I take the call in a noisy room. That meant bad business. I went into the informal parlor and turned on both the television and record player.</p><p>“Hi, Rose,” I said into the horn. “Sorry for the background noise, but, well, you know how it is here.”</p><p>“Hey,” Rose said, and I noticed a lot of noise on her end, too. “Have you guys seen Dameron?” My stomach dropped.</p><p>“We were going to invite him out one day this week. Han’s lead went nowhere.”</p><p>“Nobody’s seen him since the day after Christmas. He went to see his folks for the holiday. They saw him off on the 26<sup>th</sup>. That’s it.”</p><p>I thought a moment, rifling through the haze that still clouded parts of my mind. “What about his girl? BeeBee? Did you talk to her?”</p><p>“We—no, his parents didn’t mention her. Do you know her last name?”</p><p>“I don’t remember,” I said. “I’ll ask Ben.”</p><p>“Hang on. Have you got your memory back?”</p><p>“Some of it,” I confessed. “Not much before ’38, but it sounds like things were awful then. I was a pickpocket pretending to be a boy.”</p><p>I heard her stifle a laugh. “Well, when we find Dameron, we’ll have two reasons to celebrate.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you have listened to none of the songs I linked, please listen to Edward Dwyer sing "we're here because we're here". He was 19 years old when it was recorded and was killed in battle less than a month later. It's just really powerful. I picked Judy Garland's <i>Merry Little Xmas</i> because the words are different-- they're like, the world's shitty bc we're at war, but next year will be better!<br/>It's incredibly difficult (for me, anyway) to write first-person erotica. I TRIED.<br/>I've written Leia as a tropey weeping matriarch because every good noir film has a crying woman and I wasn't going to have it be Rey. Or Rose, this li'l pistol-packing mama who shoots to disarm and never misses. </p><p>Find me on <a href="https://maq-moon.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a> or <a href="https://twitter.com/maq_moon">Twitter</a>!</p><p>It would be super awesome if you left a comment! Or poked the kudos button. Love y'all &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for joining me here, ch 3/3! Our CWs this go-round are:</p><p>Mentions of wartime violence. It's a scenario I made up, but there's a chance it could bother someone so I'm pointing it out. Skip Finn's "I'm not a coward" speech-- it's two paragraphs long. A second mention is made in the confrontation scene. Skip the villain's "Oh yes" speech.<br/>Ben continues to have trauma-induced nightmares.<br/>Threat of non-consensual drug use. In the confrontation scene, skip the paragraph that begins, "I wasn't sure..." and ends "I avoided looking at it".<br/>Mentions of past non-consensual drug use in that same paragraph and in the "For Sentimental Reasons" section. For the latter, skip the paragraph that begins "It'll take time".<br/>Non-graphic gun violence; skip the paragraph that begins "he hadn't noticed me pick up the gun".</p><p>Enjoy the (hopefully) stunning conclusion of our story!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_bH4IZziBE"><em>You Call Everybody Darlin’</em>, Andrews Sisters</a>
</p>
<hr/><p>BeeBee Haight lived in a small apartment a few counties over and on the wrong side of the tracks. She carried herself like a scarlet woman, but what little I recalled of her was positive. She worked at a hair and nail salon. She danced very well. I think she made me laugh a lot. BeeBee’s ginger hair was done in what we called victory curls. They were a little out of fashion at this point, but BeeBee didn’t seem to mind. That kind of devil-may-care attitude made me like, or re-like, her.</p><p>“Real name’s Betty Barbara Haight,” she told Rose. “BeeBee is much cuter. Anyhow, you’re here about my darling Poe? Haven’t seen him since Christmas Eve. He fixed up my radio for me and gave me a bracelet.” She held out her wrist, showing off an array of sparkling white stones. “I told him I didn’t want anything fancy, so he got me a knockoff. Ain’t that cute? How’s darling Ben doing?”</p><p>“He’s well enough,” I said carefully. “Worried, though.”</p><p>“I’ll bet,” BeeBee said. “You girls want some joe? It’s just the instant stuff, but it’s pretty okay. Poe talks about Ben all the time. Grew up together, you see. Their moms were friends.” All of this was to Rose, who had a notebook and pencil in her hand. BeeBee handed us cups of coffee and ushered us into faded orange chairs. “Then, of course, they enlisted together. Oh! How’s darling Finn? He doing okay?”</p><p>Rose pursed her lips. “You know my husband?”</p><p>“Poe knows your husband. That means enough for me to ask after him.” Her wide blue eyes blinked innocently. It dawned on me that BeeBee called everyone in her orbit <em>darling</em>, and that she either didn’t realize or didn’t care that it irritated people.</p><p>“He’s just fine, thank you.”</p><p>“Good, good. Glad to hear it. Now, back to darling Poe—”</p><p>“I don’t suppose he was acting strangely when you last saw him?” Rose asked, tapping her pencil on her notebook.</p><p>BeeBee cocked her head, considering. “No, not really,” she said at length. “He did give me something funny, though. Said not to open it, ever. It looks like a birthday card or something. Your birthday’s coming up, Rey. Maybe it’s meant for you.” She went into her tiny kitchen and brought back an envelope that did look quite like it held a card. She handed it to me.</p><p>I unsealed it. Inside was another envelope.</p><p>
  <em>For one’s eyes only</em>
</p><p>“One,” BeeBee breathed. “That’s his word for Solo. You know, solo meaning alone meaning only one. But you’re a Solo, Rey. You can read it for sure.”</p><p>I unsealed it. Inside was yet another envelope.</p><p>
  <em>Sunshine, Leah, and One Sr. may proceed</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Others, you are in danger</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Look away, 2b</em>
</p><p>“Well, he certainly has interesting codenames for everyone,” I said. “Should I open it now? Poe seemed pretty convinced that it would get people other than the Solos in trouble.”</p><p>“Go for it,” Rose said with a shrug. “Finn and I are in this to the end. He and Poe have been through a lot together.”</p><p>“Sorry, darling, but count me out. I’ve learned to trust Poe’s instincts.” BeeBee was smiling. Her words were genuinely kind, and she patted my hand to let me know she was on my side. “Open it with Ben. Open it on my stoop. Just don’t open it where I can see, ‘kay?”</p><p>Rose stared at her. “I don’t know if you’re devoted or blind.”</p><p>BeeBee didn’t flinch. “I trust him with my life. He’s got his flaws, Lord does he ever, but if Officer Dameron says to look away or be in danger, I’ll look away every time.” She shrugged. “Besides, I hate mysteries. They’re so predictable. It’s always the first person the protagonist talked to.”</p><p>She hugged me before we left. Her imitation Parisian perfume jostled loose a memory—the two of us at a dance hall, BeeBee with bottle blonde hair, dancing together while Ben got us drinks. I didn’t know where Poe fit in, or if Poe and BeeBee even knew one another yet, but it was something.</p>
<hr/><p>The letter, buried within its sarcophagi of envelopes, was three words.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Remember Operation Starkiller</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>I put the words together immediately. They were what Ben said every night, all scrambled up inside his mind, keeping him from sleeping soundly.</p><p>Ben didn’t make the connection quite so quickly. He saw the letters on the page, spelled out in Poe’s unmistakable hand, and stared out the window. I couldn’t fathom what he was thinking. Was he experiencing shell-shock? Going back to Italy? What had the enemy done in Operation Starkiller? Ben’s forehead was creased in thought. From my position next to him on the sofa, I could easily smooth away those worried lines. Before my fingers brushed his face, he grabbed my wrist, holding it like a vise.</p><p>“Ben?” My voice was small to my own ears. “Tell me what you’re thinking, love.” His grip loosened. Perhaps that was a word he needed to hear—<em>love</em>. Neither of us had said those three little words to the other, but they hung heavy, implied by us both. “Let me in,” I entreated. “Let me help you.” I knew almost immediately that those were the wrong words.</p><p>“How could you help?” he asked. He wasn’t angry. On the contrary, he was very still, staring out the snow-frosted windows into the night. “Detectives and police and mafiosos can’t help. I couldn’t protect us. I was a soldier, my father was a soldier, and still we were attacked. Poe is gone. The best-case scenario is that he’ll show up an amnesiac, too. <em>Remember Operation Starkiller</em>, and he used codenames. He knew something was coming. He was a soldier and a cop and he anticipated an attack and he couldn’t stop it. How can you?”</p><p>“Ben,” I said, caressing his brow, “do you remember our wedding? Because I do. It was some of the first stuff to come back. Little things, like sneezing instead of saying <em>I do</em>. Big things now, too, like our vows. I seem to recall us promising to share our burdens. Let me help by sharing your burdens. Please.”</p><p>He pressed a kiss to my palm and nodded. “I don’t remember Operation Starkiller. I’d have to get any details from others who were there or someone up in the brass.”</p><p>“Like Canady,” I said, frowning.</p><p>“Or—Finn Tico was in Italy.” I shrugged; we’d never talked about his service. “Rey, they sent all of the Black soldiers to Italy. He might know something. Call him and Mrs. Tico and invite them for supper. Make it a noisy call. We’ll get to the bottom of who hurt you and Poe.”</p><p>“And you. You can’t downplay that, Ben. You’re important, too.” I kissed him, soft and quick. As I left the room, I heard him say something. I couldn’t catch any of the words.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fEsDgokc8cQ"><em>A String of Pearls</em>, Jerry Gray &amp; His Orchestra</a>
</p>
<hr/><p>We ate in the formal dining room; the kitchen only offered four chairs, and tonight there were six of us. Leia played records loudly, peppy music that contrasted starkly with the tone of our conversation. The delicate lace curtains matched the snow blanketing the yard. The Ticos were dressed to match the room—that is to say, they dressed smartly—while we Solos slummed it in our everyday clothes. Rose was wide-eyed, taking in the crystal chandelier and art framed in gold. Finn examined the black-and-white photos Leia placed generously through the house. Leia told a story with each one, how Carey Grant was a bear when he lost at cards or that Ginger Rogers was really quite nice once you got enough sauce in her. Han would occasionally chime in, and his stories were a bit more scandalous (though he never named names).</p><p>When we had finished our supper and were being served a homemade cherry pie, we got to business. None of us knew quite how to start and the music was distracting, though not so bad as when the conversation dampener was a scratching victrola needle. Still, someone had to speak first. I was surprised when it wasn’t Leia, but Ben.</p><p>“Private Tico—Finn, if that’s alright,” he began, “What do you know about Operation Starkiller?”</p><p>Finn shifted uncomfortably in his seat and pushed a single cherry around his plate. “Not a whole bunch, thank God. I got injured before they-- did it. I was in a field hospital writing a letter to Rosie when I heard.” He suppressed a shudder. “Not exactly table conversation.”</p><p>“Poe’s letter said to remember Operation Starkiller. That’s it, nothing else,” I said. “Please, Finn. Lives depend on this.” Outside, a heavy rain began.</p><p>He swallowed hard and looked at the napkin folded in his lap. “I’m not a coward,” he said. “I signed up to fight for my country, and I knew I’d have to kill. I knew I might die. I’d heard talk from men who fought in the Great War about terrible things they did because they were ordered to, and I knew that I’d be in that position. I’m not a coward,” he repeated, “but when I overheard the officers talking about Starkiller, I nearly ran. Never told anybody what I’d heard; never got the chance. The next day I got shot in the leg. I don’t know if the 92<sup>nd</sup> was involved. I was in a hell of a lot of pain, in and out of consciousness, honorably discharged with a leg that wouldn’t ever work the same again.</p><p>“But on my cot, writing to my girl, I heard about it. Not the name, the—the act. What they’d done. In the name of freedom, what our soldiers had done. I had almost nothing in my stomach, but I threw up. Because what they did wasn’t about freedom or patriotism or protecting our country. It wasn’t even revenge; you can’t call something that disproportionate revenge. It was a massacre. Four cities in the neutral zone, levelled overnight. Tanks. Gas. Kids locked up together in basements. And do you know why? Do you know what I heard that officer say the day before I got shot? <em>I call it Operation Starkiller. They killed four of our boys, we’ll destroy four of their cities with only the stars to bear witness</em>. Some decent soul tried to protest, but it sounded like punches were being thrown and I got out of dodge. Getting shot was the second-best thing that ever happened to me.” He took Rose’s hand and squeezed.</p><p>The fog was back in my head. I knew this story. I had heard it before. I just couldn’t puzzle out where. The simplest answer was Poe; he knew about it. Maybe he had told me. Maybe he had told Ben and that’s why he had such night terrors. Except—</p><p>“Remember,” Ben said, his thoughts in time with my own. “I served in Italy, right? I must have been there. I must have—God, what if I was a part of it?”</p><p>“No,” Leia insisted sharply. “You wouldn’t be. Poe wants you to remember it for another reason. Something about him.”</p><p>But I knew, just as Ben knew, that it wasn’t the case. Our eyes locked and we linked hands. “You—I think you told me about it,” I said. “And about a fight?”</p><p>His expression was blank as he nodded. “I threw the first punch. I didn’t say a word, but I hit him over and over until they pulled me off of him.”</p><p>“Who?” Leia prompted. Ben shook his head.</p><p>“Welp,” Han said, chiming in at last, “you know what I say about coincidences. Two is a coincidence, three is a pattern. We have three people who definitely knew about Starkiller who have been abducted. If the pattern holds, Poe will wake up in a skeevy hotel without a thought in his brain. We have a fourth person, Finn, who knew, but we don’t know if anyone knew he knew, but who nevertheless suffered a career-ending injury the day after he found out. Goddamn, I think Poe was right about it being military. Isn’t that always the way with mysteries?”</p><p>“What do you mean?” I asked, but Rose was quicker on the uptake.</p><p>“It’s always the first suspect. BeeBee said it, too. I thought it was just a silly remark, but think about it,” she said, tapping her temple with her index finger.</p><p>“Canady was Poe’s first suspect,” Leia said. “And the letters looked like they were written by him.”</p><p>“But you didn’t suspect Canady,” I reminded Leia. “You said Poe was biased.”</p><p>“Whose first suspect is the actual first suspect?” Han asked, exasperated.</p><p>“Poe’s,” Leia said. “He found Ben. That was the beginning.”</p><p>“So I need to talk to Canady again,” I said. A chorus of <em>no!</em> and <em>absolutely not!</em> and similar negatives sounded. “Well, what choice have we got?”</p><p>“What would you say to him, kid? Tell me about your secret murder-the-innocents mission that you involved my husband in? Wanna give me the dirt on this memory erasing you’re doing?”</p><p>“I don’t know, Han! I can’t just do nothing.” Ben’s grip on my fingers tightened ever so slightly. I glanced at him; he was paler than usual and looked like he might faint. I squeezed back. “Look, everybody, it’s going on ten. I’m beat. Can we think this through individually and regroup in a day or so?”</p><p>Everyone agreed. We came up with a codeword for Operation Starkiller so that anyone listening on the horn wouldn’t know what we were talking about and so that the Ticos were protected if someone overheard them at home. We decided on “the monkey” since none of us were likely to have a conversation about a monkey in our day to day lives.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8"><em>Dream a Little Dream of Me</em>, Ella Fitzgerald &amp; Louis Armstrong</a>
</p>
<hr/><p>Ben and I fell into bed with our clothes still on. We got under the gold coverlet and held one another. His hands drew patterns on my arms and back. I tucked my head under his chin, and the words finally came out.</p><p>“I love you,” I said. “You don’t have to say it back. I know I’m probably not the wife you remember because I’m missing a significant portion of my life. I just wanted you to know that I love you. I don’t expect you to say anything back.”</p><p>His grip tightened. I felt him smile against my hair. “God, Rey, I’ve been waiting to hear that since you walked into the kitchen in flannel pajamas and pigtails.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of my head. “I love you. Now, then, when you stole my map, tomorrow, fifty years from now. Always. I didn’t want to pressure you into loving me.”</p><p>“Silly man,” I said. “Falling in love with you was like falling asleep. It was bound to happen eventually, and it came somehow slowly and all at once.” I pecked a series of dry kisses on his neck. “Promise to dream of me?”</p><p>“I promise to try.”</p><p>“Good enough.” I sighed and turned in his embrace, the little spoon to his big spoon. His arms caged me protectively, his hands occasionally wandering along my arm or hip or leg. Contrary to what I’d said in the dining room, I wasn’t completely tired; I was frustrated and Ben was clearly overwhelmed. I wasn’t quite ready for sleep. The next time his hand made a pass over my arm, I took it and guided it to my breast. Even though I was fully clothed, this affected him. He shuddered and hardened behind me. He gently squeezed me through my sweater, making a soft, kitten-like noise pass my lips. We went no further; he was content to stroke and cup my breasts and I happily pressed back against his hot erection.</p><p>When we drifted to sleep, I dreamed of him. He didn’t dream of me.</p><p>He woke with a start, covered in a sheen of cold sweat, shouting, “Evacuate! For God’s sake, evacuate the children!” I whispered in his ear, carded my fingers through his sweat-slick hair, and laid my head on his shoulder. I didn’t ask what he was dreaming about; I already knew. I reminded him that he was with me, reminded him that I loved him. “We have to find the records,” he said, trembling.</p><p>I snorted. “You’ve all forbidden me from going to the base.”</p><p>“Maybe there’s another way. Maybe we can do it without involving the others. If we go at night, Canady’s office will be empty.”</p><p>I had a half dozen protestations, but none of them outweighed my desire for the truth. “When?” I asked.</p><p>“Once the snow melts.”</p>
<hr/><p>The rain washed away the snow within a day. We planned, the two of us huddled in bed, too anxious to sleep much or make love. We both wore black and covered our heads with scarves and knit caps, my hair tucked up inside. We wanted to make me look like a fella; I don’t know that it worked. Ben took a revolver—just in case, he said, tucked away where I couldn’t see it. We took one of Han’s hot rods and parked a few blocks from the base. I imagine Han or his guards knew something was up. We sneaked out in the dead of night, looking like burglars, and took one of the fastest cars. I’d wager money that one of those gorillas woke Han and told him.</p><p>I was wearing work boots. I recalled working in a factory on an assembly line, inspired by those <em>We Can Do It!</em> posters. These were the shoes I’d worn to the factory, only we’d covered them in black shoe polish. We were dark as night. I only hoped it was enough.</p><p>Getting onto the base was as easy as it had been the first time, but no less stressful. We hugged the chain fences, careful not to rattle them. I led Ben to Canady’s office. He pulled out a set of lockpicks (“No child of mine is going to Europe unprepared,” Han had insisted on Christmas 1941). We didn’t need them. The door was unlocked, and Canady lit a lamp as soon as we stepped in.</p><p>“This again?” he asked, puffing on a cigar. “I already told you that I wasn’t involved.”</p><p>I tried to keep my mouth from falling open. Ben stood resolute. “Where’s Poe Dameron?”</p><p>Canady looked truly confused for a brief second before his mask of composure slid back into place. “Dameron? I haven’t seen him since I booted him from my squadron.”</p><p>“You’re lying,” Ben said. His fingers were itching to reach for his gun, but Canady’s words hit me in full.</p><p>“Wait. Again?” I asked. “We’ve had this conversation before?”</p><p>Canady leaned back in his chair. He exhaled heavy smoke. “Right before Solo disappeared. Or, apologies, ma’am, what was your story? He had a fever? You two came in here like amateur vigilantes right before Corporal Solo’s ‘fever’, demanding records on the Starkiller operation. I wasn’t there. I told you who was.”</p><p>“Hux,” I blurted out. “It was Hux, wasn’t it?”</p><p>“I told you that in November. In the interest of speeding this along, I’ll repeat myself once and then not again. He acted without orders, but used my name to get it done. He tried to get my approval after the fact. I wouldn’t give it. What he did was beyond stupid and I wanted no part of it.”</p><p>“How could it be him?” Ben asked, turning to me. “The letters…”</p><p>“Hux has access to this office. He could have copied the handwriting,” I deduced. “And he’s the one who pointed me to Canady in the first place. It makes sense. <em>He’s</em> the first, not Canady.”</p><p>“I know you love a good adventure, but this isn’t a book. Poe is in real trouble. People are being drugged or brainwashed and vanishing—”</p><p>“Little Armitage always was a fool,” Canady sneered, taking a long drag of his cigar. “Trying to live up to his father’s expectations. Brendol, his father, was in experimental drug development before an experimental drug not-so-mysteriously killed him. After that, a lot of things that hadn’t been redacted became redacted fairly quickly… including much of the Starkiller incident. I don’t know how he pulled it off. It’s the first impressive thing he’s ever done, even if it’s borderline treasonous. Too bad his father isn’t alive to see it.” He looked Ben in the eyes. “Brendol Hux was a good friend of mine.” Canady stood and turned his back to us, staring out the window into the moonless night. “Hux, Jr. sometimes sneaks off to the defunct laundry facility in the far northeast corner of the base. I never saw you.”</p><p>Even though he couldn’t see it, Ben saluted Canady before we left.</p>
<hr/><p>We ran, avoiding pockets of mud if we could, avoiding soldiers at all costs, until we reached a squat old building with the word LAUNDRY over the door. It may have been white once, but weather and time had worn away the paint. A single, small light was visible through the cracked windows. Illuminated by the light was Poe Dameron, unconscious and tied like a hog.</p><p>Ben didn’t hesitate; he used his shoulder to bust through the door when the knob didn’t immediately turn. Corporal Hux stood at a stained wash table, powders and liquids spread before him. He laid down the syringe in his hand and turned to us slowly, blinking. He inclined his head in greeting and looked back to his jars and packets.</p><p>“I wasn’t sure,” he said, “if you were going to figure it out. I’d obviously been making it better each time. It was especially potent in you, Mrs. Solo. You forgot your own name.” He closed his eyes and smiled. “The look on your face when you thought you’d gotten something from me was too much. That Cheshire grin—I knew I’d done it. But then you started to remember. I couldn’t have you link it to me, so I tried to end the experiment. Those three idiots shot the wrong brunette that day.” Ben lunged at him. Hux jumped to Poe and held the syringe to his neck. “No, no. I’m in charge here. Can’t have you shooting me again.” He flexed his left arm. “There was a lot more blood than I would have thought. Two years on the Continent and I wasn’t hit once. Five minutes with you at home and I get a gaping shoulder wound. Come to that, why don’t you go ahead and put your gun on the ground? I can see you reaching for it.” Ben hesitated. Hux inched the syringe closer to Poe. The gun clattered to the ground, midway between me and Ben. I pointedly avoided looking at it.</p><p>“So it was your blood on me when I woke up?” I prayed the answer was no because that meant this disgusting man had changed me into the red dress, but I knew. I knew before he answered.</p><p>“Oh yes. You were standing right next to me. Your brute of a husband could have shot you. It wouldn’t have been the worst thing he’s done, though.” I took a step closer, lip curled. “Do you remember the details of Starkiller, Ben? Has that come back to you? You were angry at first—you gave me quite the shiner—but you fell in line eventually. It was your idea to round up the children.”</p><p>“Enough,” I said, taking another step. Ben was pale and shaking. Poe stirred; I didn’t draw attention to him. Better to keep the focus on me.</p><p>“That’s what our superiors said, and more than once. Benjamin Solo was known for his brutal tactics.”</p><p>“It was war.” Step.</p><p>“You and I really aren’t that different, Ben,” Hux said, looking at my wan husband. “We’ll both do whatever it takes. We’ll both—”</p><p>“Bleeding Christ, that’s the sort of thing villains in pictures and mystery novels say.”</p><p>He hadn’t noticed me pick up the gun, and he hadn’t noticed me aiming it. He hadn’t noticed Poe, worse for the wear but coming to, fall to his side—away from that dangerous needle. I said a silent prayer, made sure to keep both eyes open, cocked the revolver, and twitched my finger just a little on the trigger. I wasn’t shooting to kill. Just like Rose, I wanted to wing him in the arm holding his weapon.</p><p>I missed. Instead, I shot him in the abdomen. At least it wasn’t fatal.</p><p>Hux laid in a corner as I untied a drowsy Poe. Ben stood still as a statue, and just as pale.</p><p>Technical Sergeant Canady swept into the laundry. A spike of panic hit me; I thought he’d given us carte blanche. In a haze, I heard him read out a list of crimes committed by Armitage Hux, who would be going before a military tribunal. Poe laughed as best he could. I tried to smile, but I was focused on Ben.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TnEtvtmFcgo"><em>For Sentimental Reasons</em>, Nat King Cole</a>
</p>
<hr/><p>Here I am, standing in the dark, sweat-soaked, makeup running down my face, reaching for the only thing that makes sense in the world—<em>him</em>. And I don’t know what to do for him because he’s remembering ugly things, things he did in wartime. He did them for our country, but that doesn’t mean he has to like what he did. I’m struck again by how strong he is. He’s facing these terrible things (though Hux was certainly an unreliable source), and I’ve been happy to ignore my life before Ben. I owe it to him to at least try to be as strong as he is.</p><p>Just as I decide to be brave—to find what remains of that Hooverville, to travel to the city where I couldn’t live as myself—Ben reaches for me. I’m his lodestone, just like he’s mine. He smiles at me. I have to smile back. We did it. We saved Poe. We caught the bad guy.</p><p>Ben pulls me in for a kiss. It’s sweet and simple and lasts for only a few moments. Just to be silly, I pop up one of my feet like gals always do in pictures. We laugh, and then I kiss him, a bit more heated until Poe clears his throat. I wink at Poe and go back to kissing my husband.  </p><p>It’ll take time to remember everything. I think Tech. Sgt. Canady will be kind enough to let us know what exactly Hux was playing around with, putting into people. I’m sure there are others out there who knew about Operation Starkiller and who weren’t as lucky as we were. But we <em>were</em> lucky. We had good friends and good resources, and we came out on top. Now we can try to get back to normal—move back to our own house in the city and drive to work (if we ever find our car!) and go dancing on Saturday nights.</p><p>Now we can work on our happily ever after.       </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Aaaaaaaaand roll credits!<br/>I got the thing about the bad guy always being the first person you talk to from some kids' show (I legit don't remember), and I decided it would be fun to run with it.<br/>The "falling in love is like falling asleep" was lovingly stolen from John Green.<br/>I always thought it would be funny for a villain to give their big "We're Not So Different" speech and have the hero interrupt with something like, "Is this a fucking James Bond movie?" I did what I could lol.<br/>I also wanted to throw in a nod to the Hays Code (booooo!) that censored films for decades, so I made Rey's foot pop in the last scene. </p><p>Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! Please remember to check out the rest of the RFFA's 2021 Valentine's Day exchange, To Find Your Kiss!</p><p>Find me on <a href="https://maq-moon.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a> or <a href="https://twitter.com/maq_moon">Twitter</a>!</p><p>(do me a l'il favor and boop a comment or knock a kudo my way. i don't eat people food i survive on the approval of strangers)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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